LIBRARY 

of  California 
IRVINE 


ESTELLE 


AN  IDYL  OF  OLD  VIRGIN I A 


BY 

MARCUS  BLAKEY_ALLMOND,  A.M.,  LL.D. 

Magazine  Medalist,  University  of  Virginia ;  Head-master  University 

School,  Louisville;  formerly  Professor  Ancient  Languages, 

Male  High  School ;  Author  "Fairfax,  My  Lord," 

"Outlines  of  Latin  Syntax,"  etc. 


FIFTH  THOUSAND 

LOUISVILLE  KY 

MARCUS  BLAKEY  ALLMOND 

1899 


£-7 


Copyright.  1896,  by  M.  B.  Allmond. 


Dedicated  to  My  Wife, 
GARY  MEADE  ALLMOND, 

And 
MY  CHILDREN, 

Whose  Welfare  is  ''  Part  and  Parcel  "  of 
My  Every  Thought. 


FROM  THE  LATE  PRESIDENT  OF 
YALE  COLLEGE. 

Pro).  Marcus  B.  AHmor.d: 

•My  Dear  Sir:  Some  one  was  so  kind  as  to  send 
me  by  post  a  poem  by  yourself,  entitled  "Estelle." 
Happening  to  have  an  hour  to  spare  I  at  once  took 
it  up,  and  was  so  interested  in  it  as  to  read  it  through 
at  a  sitting.  I  take  the  liberty  to  congratulate  you 
as  the  author  of  a  very  lovely  idyll,  sweet  in  its 
spirit,  lovely  in  its  pictures,  and  admirably  felicitous 
in  its  diction.  What  can  I  say  more,  and  I  could 
not  say  less,  if  I  should  say  any  thing. 
Most  sincerely  yours, 

N.   PORTER. 
New  Haven,  Conn.,  June  13.  1884. 


PREFACE 

SOME  years  since,  when  the  author  was  Professor  of 
Ancient  Languages  in  the  Male  High  School,  he 
urged  upon  the  young  men  of  his  classes,  as  an  excellent 
exercise  in  the  acquisition  of  facility  in  English  expression, 
a  carefully  written  as  well  as  a  painstaking  and  exact  oral 
translation  of  the  thoughts  of  the  great  authors  they  were 
reading.  He  had  followed  such  a  course  himself  at  school 
and  at  the  University  of  Virginia,  and  to  prove  to  his  pupils 
that  even  one  without  natural  gifts  might,  by  such  a 
practice,  make  some  headway  in  expression,  he  sat  down 
one  Saturday  morning,  and  before  the  day  was  over  he  had 
finished  the  most  of  "Estelle."  It  embodies,  it  is  true,  in 
the  main,  experiences  had  by  the  author  amid  the  uplands 
of  the  Rappahannock,  close  under  the  Blue  Ridge,  in  Old 
Virginia,  where  at  his  cousin's  home,  "Estelle,"  now  the 
author's  wife,  was  teaching.  In  some  points,  however,  the 
story  is  purely  imaginative.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  tell 
any  one  who  knows  the  author  that  the  author  is  no  artist. 
(8) 


Preface 


The  art  of  mixing  and  handling  paints  is  an  enormous 
mystery  to  him.  And  so  pronounced  are  his  views  against 
the  nefarious  liquor  traffic  that  it  is  equally  unnecessary  to 
state  that  "his  breath  with  wine  was"  never  "strong"  at 
the  banquet  herein  described,  or  anywhere  else,  or  to 
declare  that  he  never  sang  the  "Carpe  Diem"  song.  Nor 
did  Mr.  William  Washington  Meade  (a  nephew  of  the 
celebrated  Bishop  and  a  grandson  of  Col.  Richard  Kidder 
Meade,  of  Washington's  staff),  the  father  of  the  author's 
wife — Virginia  Gary  Meade  —  die  for  many  years  after 
"  Estelle  "  was  written. 

Moreover,  the  author  is  free  to  admit  that  from  the 
time  he  met  "Estelle"  till  he  made  her  his  wife,  there 
was  no  separation  wherein  she  had  time  for  the  meditations 
here  attributed  to  her.  Having  reached  Rappahannock 
worn  down  by  long  years  of  collegiate  and  pedagogic  work, 
he  remained  amid  those  sunny  uplands  till  June's  dear  days 
were  well-nigh  over,  when  he  repaired  with  her  to  her  father's 
home,  whence  he  brought  her  away  a  bride  on  the  last  day 
of  that  eventful  month  whose  bewitching  grace  is  here 

chanted  in  song. 

June,  June, 
Sweet,  rare  June! 
You  come  too  late 
And  go  too  soon. 

(9) 


Preface 


The  popularity  of  the  little  volume  was  a  genuine 
surprise  to  the  author,  and,  when  the  first  edition  was 
exhausted,  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  make  up  his 
mind  to  publish  a  second  edition.  But  the  thousand  copies 
of  the  second  edition  have  been  exhausted  long  since  — 
three  or  four  years  since  —  and  the  demand  has  seemed 
so  urgent  from  time  to  time,  that  the  author  is  no  longer 
able  to  resist  a  third  edition,  especially  as  orders  have  been 
received  from  Iowa  to  California,  and  from  Texas  to 
Massachusetts,  and  even  far-away  Germany,  within  a  com 
paratively  short  time,  showing  that  the  little  book  has 
touched  a  cord  that  vibrates  in  the  universal  heart. 

In  the  hope  that  it  may  bear  a  blessing  to  some  human 
soul,  that  it  may  shed  a  bit  of  sunshine  along  the  path 
way  of  some  shadowed  life,  that  it  may  render  pleasurable 
some  hour  that  otherwise  might  have  been  a  weary  one, 
that  it  may  bring  some  heart  into  closer  and  sweeter  unison 
with  another  heart,  that  it  may  augment  good  fellowship 
and,  while  more  widely  diffusing  the  amenities  of  life, 
contribute  yet  more  to  the  elevation  of  man  and  the  glory 
of  God,  the  author  commits  it  for  a  third  time  to  a 
generous  public.  The  kind  letters  it  has  brought  him,  the 
hearty  friendships  it  has  made  him,  the  blessed  good-will  it 
(10) 


Preface 


has  won  for  him  in  hearts  he  never  knew,  have  been  to 
him  a  source  of  infinite  and  abiding  pleasure  he  may  not 
rashly  reckon.  And  when  life  and  its  duties  are  over  and 
death  and  its  mysteries  are  at  hand,  it  will  be  one  consoling 
thought  that,  should  all  his  other  efforts  at  well-doing  fail, 
this  one  at  least  has  had  some  measure  of  success. 

In  due  appreciation  of  this  fact  the  little  volume  appears 
in  far  handsomer  guise  than  ever  before.  To  Mr.  H.  H. 
Hughes,  whose  taste  in  typography  is  so  well  known,  the 
author  here  makes  due  acknowledgment,  and  there  are 
others,  also,  who  have  considerably  assisted  him  in  the 
habiliment  of  the  poem,  to  whom  he  would  here  return 
merited  thanks,  were  he  allowed  by  them  to  do  so.  They 
must  take  the  wish  for  the  deed.  In  conclusion,  to  one 
and  all  into  whose  hands  this  little  book  may  come  the 
author  bids  a  hearty  God-speed  in  all  that  is  good  and  true 
and  generous  and  brave  —  in  all  that  makes  life  worth  the 
living  and  the  Far-Beyond  an  assured  and  beautiful  hope. 

Louisville,  Ky.,  Decembet  1,  1896. 


(ii) 


PREFACE  TO  THIS  EDITION. 

WHEN  this  book  was  written,  the  author  never  dreamed 
that  nearly  5,000  copies  would  reach  the  public,  and 
that,  too,  after  it  had  been  out  of  print  two  or  three  years 
between  the  several  successive  editions.  He  feels  humbly 
thankful  for  the  many  letters  received  from  appreciative 
readers  the  world  over.  God  bless  them,  one  and  all,  here 
and  hereafter.  The  purchasers  of  this  book,  he  knows, 
will  pardon  him  for  making  due  acknowledgment  here  to 
the  worth  of  one  who  in  her  modest  self-abnegation  denied 
him  the  privilege  in  the  former  preface.  The  talented 
young  lady  whose  skillful  hand  designed  the  embossing-plate 
and  frontispiece  and  whose  lithe  figure  adorns  the  various 
half-tones  now  sleeps  the  eternal  sleep.  When  the  gentle 
Evelyn  Walbeck  went  on  the  abiding  pilgrimage,  a  distinct 
loss  fell  upon  the  lovers  of  the  beautiful  everywhere.  But 
in  the  embellishment  of  this  book  as  well  as  in  the  famous 
"Log  Cabin"  under  which  device  the  Republican  party  in 
Kentucky  votes,  her  ready  ingenuity  and  happy  execution 
are  shown  and  still  remain  a  monument  to  her  ability. 
God  rest  her  well  im  jenzeit  —  on  the  yon  side.  Here  she 
abides  and  will  ever  abide  in  the  hearts  of  her  friends. 
(12) 


ESTELLE 


that  fair  land  of  light  and  love, 

Where  heroes  sleep  entombed  in  throngs, 
Where  laughing  skies  are  blue  above 

And  Nature  sings  her  sweetest  songs  — 
In  that  dear  land  we  love  and  hold 

The  saintliest  of  the  sisterhood, 
The  State  of  States,  whose  arms  enfold 

Yet  hosts  on  hosts  of  great  and  good, 
Whose  virgin  soil  bears  virgin  name, 

Whose  best  of  people  wear  the  grace 
Of  heir  ship  in  their  fathers'  fame 

With  ease  that  marks  a  kindred  race, 
Whose  men  love  honor  as  their  soul, 

And  women  are  Cornelias  all, 
da) 


"A   sudden   thought   now   seized   on    Ned 
To  weave  for  her  a  diadem."  (Page  22) 


Estelle 

Who  count  their  jewels  by  the  roll 

Of  sons  who  heed  their  country's  call ;  — 
Close  nestling  under  mountains  blue 

A  streamlet  rises  in  a  glen 
And  makes  its  way  to  broader  view 

Arnid  the  busier  haunts  of  men; 
But  ere  it  leaves  its  mountain  home 

It  laughs  along  fair  sloping  hills 
And  catches  with  its  whiter  foam 

The  ripples  of  unnumbered  rills ; 
It  passes  houses,  one  by  one, 

That,  nestling  'mid  their  groves  of  trees, 
Escape  the  noon-heat  of  the  sun 

When  plays  the  fitful  summer  breeze ; 
It  passes  scenes  that  would  delight 

The  painter's  or  the  poet's  eye  — 
That  breathe  anew  by  day,  by  night, 

The  glories  of  an  Arcady. 
Here  in  the  month  of  leafy  June, 

When  roses  were  in  height  of  pride, 


Estelle 

And  Morning  met  sweet  Afternoon 
And  kissed  her  by  the  water's  side, 

The  farmer's  daughter  sits  beneath 
The  freshness  of  the  maple's  shade, 

While  wild  flowers  of  her  native  heath 
The  balmy  airs  with  fragrance  lade. 

She  caught  the  lull  of  noontide  hour 

And  almost  drowsed  beside  the  fell ; 
The  bee  had  left  the  rifled  flower, 

The  sheep  had  ceased  to  ring  his  bell ; 
The  browsing  kine  forgot  to  graze 

And  stood  beneath  the  trees  in  dream, 
While  sunlight  flashed  its  mellow  rays 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  stream. 

The  book  beside  her  lay  half-shut, 

She  floated  off  on  magic  seas : 
"He  comes,"  she  dreams,  "he  comes  ;  but,  but — " 
Her  hair  is  fingered  by  the  breeze, 

(15) 


Estelle 

Ah,  well !  those  lashes,  they  are  long 

And  cast  their  shadows  o'er  the  blue 
That  now  lies  hidden  (am  I  wrong?) 

Beneath  those  lids,  just  out  of  view; 
And,  oh !  those  cheeks,  I  know  a  rose 

Has  stolen  from  its  parent-stem 
And  left  the  track  of  tiny  toes 

In  dimples  upon  each  of  them ; 

And  lips,  Carnation's  own  they  seem— 

Sweet,  dainty  lips,  the  home  of  bliss - 
Such  lips  as  Fancy,  in  sweet  dream, 

Would  hover  round,  yet  fear  to  kiss ; 
So  pure,  they  seem  for  angel-words 

The  trysting-place  and  holy  shrine, 
When  with  the  twitter,  as  of  birds, 

In  nuptial  joy  they  intertwine ; 
And,  oh !  that  chin  so  neatly  turned, 

A  Grecian  artist,  yes,  the  best, 
With  silent  envy  would  have  burned 

To  see  the  skill  it  did  attest ; 

(16) 


Estelle 

And  brow!  it  rose  a  wreath  of  white 

That  bordered  wide  a  wealth  of  tress 
That  now  in  sunny  beauty  light 

Fell  in  fair  folds  upon  her  dress. 
The  wanton  breeze  with  lustful  glow 

Now  freshened  as  it  stroked  her  hair, 
And,  as  it  kissed  her  brow  of  siiow, 

Declared  she  was  surpassing  fair. 

She  dreamed  she  saw  him  on  the  hill; 

She  saw  him  moving  down  the  path ; 
She  saw  him  cross  the  little  rill; 

What  eyes  she  dreams  her  lover  hath ! 
How  stately  is  his  form,  and  fair ! 

How  strong  his  step  and  sure  of  place ! 
How  wavy  his  Hyperion  hair, 

And  what  an  open,  manly  face ! 
But  books  will  often  make  us  dream, 

And  June  will  bring  fair  fancies  up 
And  tinge  them  with  the  mellow  gleam 

Of  daffodil  or  buttercup. 
(17) 


Estelle 


NOW  farmer  Creal,  a  neighbor  friend, 
While  horses  to  the  barn  were  gone, 
Thought  it  quite  well  to  go  (not  send) 
And  see  how  farmer  Rout  came  on. 
Just  at  his  neighbor's  gate  he  met, 

A  full  fourth-mile  from  house  away, 
A  youth  quite  fair  of  mould,  who  yet 

Bore  signs  or  traveling  far  that  day. 
Clad  in  a  garb  of  sober  sense, 

He  seemed  to  farmer  Creal  a  man 
He  might  address  without  pretense 

Or  taking  length  of  time  to  scan. 
"Good-morning!"  said  the  farmer  then; 
"Good-morning!"  said  the  passer-by. 
"Nice  day!"  the  farmer  said  again; 
"Yes,  sir,"  the  youth  made  quick  reply, 
And  added,  "Can  you  tell  me,  sir, 
Where  farmer  Creal  lives  hereabout? 

(IS) 


Estelle 

Or,  if  he  is  not  living  here, 

Where  lives  —  let's  see  —  old  farmer  Rout?" 
"My  name  is  Creal ;  and  yonder  —  see! 

Lives  my  old  friend,  good  farmer  Rout ; 
I'll  take  you  by  his  house  with  me, 

If  you  will  only  turn  about." 
Then  through  the  gate  and  down  the  hill 

They  kept  the  way  that  led  below, 
And  chatting,  now  they  cross  the  rill 

And  reach  the  spot  where  maples  grow. 
And  here,  oh  stay !  ye  gods  above, 

An  Aphrodite,  armed  in  might, 
A  sunny  snare  of  sunny  Love, 

Breaks  in  full  power  upon  the  sight. 
"  Estelle 's  asleep!"  the  farmer  says, 

And  called  her:  "Estelle,  hey,  awake!" 
Oh !  farmers  have  such  sober  ways  — 

His  ringing  words  the  sweet  spell  break. 
But  farmers  are  the  sturdy  men 

That  build  the  nation  strong  and  true, 
(19) 


Estelle 

That  sink  foundations  in  the  fen 
On  which  we  round  up  to  the  blue 

The  house  that  winds  and  rains  harm  not, 
The  superstructure  that  must  stand 

When  you  and  I  are  both  forgot, 

And  children's  children  own  the  land. 


N  TOW  days  went  by,  as  days  will  do, 

•*•  ^      And  oft  they  met,  as  young  folks  will, 

When  air  is  sweet  and  skies  are  blue 

And  green  grass  creeps  along  the  hill. 
'Twas  afternoon — just  such  a  one 

As  June  will  give  beneath  the  skies 
Where  Blue  Ridge  welcomes  morning  sun 

With  her  fair,  laughing,  winsome  eyes. 
They  strolled — Estelle  and  Ned  Holway — 

Along  the  farm-road  up  the  hill 
To  where  the  forest-shadows  lay 

In  hushed  repose,  divinely  still. 

(20) 


Estelle 

He  talked  in  low  and  quiet  wise 

Of  men  and  matters  manifold, 
And  sighed  to  think  the  very  skies 

Grow  brighter  if  but  tinged  with  gold. 
He  told  the  story  of  his  life  — 

Of  all  he  dreamed  that  he  would  be : 
"I've  battled  there  ('twas  knife  to  knife) 

To  win  an  honest  victory. 
But  gold,  eternal  gold !  the  cry 

Fills  all  the  world  and  stays  the  hand 
Of  Art,  who  shrinks  back  with  a  sigh 

That  greed  of  gain  engulfs  the  land : 
But  Art  is  Art  —  a  thing  divine  — 

I  love  her  with  my  very  soul ; 
I'll  not  forsake  her  holy  shrine 

Till  Mammon  pay  her  ample  dole." 

They  now  had  reached  a  charming  spot, 

Where  shade  locked  hands  with  shade  in  glee, 

The  artist  for  a  while  forgot 
The  subject  of  his  colloquy. 


*  *  *  She  leaned  upon  his  arm 
And  walked  on  slowly  back  toward  home. 


(Page  28) 


Estelle 

And  now  upon  a  great,  wild  rock, 

Extending  each  way  many  feet, 
He  piled  stone-block  upon  stone-block 

Until  it  grew  to  be  a  seat 
A  very  queen  might  love  to  hold, 

Beneath  the  overshadowing  trees, 
And  wrapped  in  vine-leaves  crimson-gold, 

Or  green  as  hills  by  Southern  seas. 
A  honeysuckle  wild  and  red 

Was  stretching  welcoming  hands  to  them. 
A  sudden  thought  now  seized  on  Ned 

To  weave  for  her  a  diadem. 
The  violet  with  blue  eyes  smiled 

From  hiding-place  beneath  the  ledge, 
And  buttercups  were  growing  wild 

Beyond  the  sv^eeping  forest's  edge. 
Now,  as  he  wove,  he  sprang  again 

The  subject  of  an  artist's  love  — 
How  field  and  forest,  grove  and  glen, 

And  laughing  rills  and  skies  above, 

(22) 


Estelle 

And  all  things  whisper  songs  to  him, 

And  all  things  seem  to  woo  his  heart 
To  quaff  the  cup  whose  mantling  brim 

Speaks  loyalty  to  higher  art : 
"Men's  worlds  are  what  they  make  them  —  all  — 

Or  bright  or  dark  or  sweet  or  sad. 
Whose  heart  lets  sunshine  on  it  fall 

Or  rain-clouds  round  it  battle  mad 
Has  joy  or  grief  as  he  may  choose  — 

Has  wealth  no  Croesus  ever  knew 
Or  Poverty  that  would  refuse 

To  see  the  kindness  men  may  do. 
For  my  part  I  am  sworn  to  seek 

The  beauty  of  God's  master-hand ; 
My  art,  my  tongue,  my  all  shall  speak 

The  glories  of  my  native  land." 
And  thus  he  prattled,  while  a  breeze 

Began  to  stir  on  hidden  wings ; 
It  hummed  a  low  song  in  the  trees 

And  toyed  with  her  bonnet-strings. 
(23) 


Estelle 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BREEZE. 

O,  sweet  sun-bonnet,  lined  with  pink! 

When  June  wakes  fancies  in  a  youth, 
The  queenliest  bonnet  thou,  I  think, 

That  ever  circled  face  of  Truth. 

O,  sweet  sun-bonnet,  lined  with  pink! 

O,  sweet,  fair  face  just  peeping  out! 
Your  dual  power  would  woo,  I  think, 

And  win  a  heart's  last  halting  doubt. 

O,  sweet  sun-bonnet,  lined  with  pink! 

In  whose  fair  fashion  is  no  art, 
But  artless  art,  which  is,  I  think, 

The  art  of  arts  to  win  a  heart. 

O,  sweet  sun-bonnet,  lined  with  pink! 

Thou  art  so  witching  in  thy  grace, 
My  rapt  soul  lingers  lang'rous  o'er 

The  rose-tints  on  her  lily-face. 

Anon  she  threw  it  from  her  brow 
And  almost  smiled  as,  looking  down, 

She  saw  the  artist  busy  now 
At  work  upon  her  floral  crown. 


Estelle 

"He  weaves  most  well,"  she  thought,  "but  oh! 

He  knows  not  what  he's  weaving  there, 
Two  lives — "  and  then  she  started  so 

Her  thought  was  cleft  like  brittle  ware. 
Again  she  looked  upon  the  crown, 

Again  the  thought  would  come,  but  she 
Would  struggle  so  to  keep  it  down — 
"It  might,  it  might  be  destiny." 
And  he  wove  on  and  talked  of  art, 

And  talked  of  dreams  (we  all  dream  them), 
And  knew  not  that  he  wove  his  heart 

Into  his  lady's  diadem. 


/<"\H !  summer  speeds  on  fairy  wings, 

^-^     When  youth  with  youth  is  leagued  with  Joy ; 

And  Time  counts  not  the  half  he  brings, 

When  tricked  in  song  he  plays  the  boy, 
And  with  round  laugh  and  roguish  glee 

Steals  smiles  from  even  wrinkled  cheeks, 
(25) 


Estelle 

And  leads  a  laddie's  foot  to  be 

A  truant  bold  in  neighb'ring  creeks ; 
But  oh !  when  sorrow  comes  between, 

When  Grief  reclines  with  pallid  brow, 
That  which  was  only  yestere'en 

Seems  ages  to  both  young  hearts  now. 
Oh !  wide  world  o'er,  where  is  the  place 

That  Death  rules  not  with  ruthless  sway? 
That  old,  old  friend,  whose  pale,  pale  face 

Will  meet  us  in  some  unknown  way. 
Good  farmer  Rout  in  God's  own  time 

Was  called  to  leave  his  work  and  go ; 
His  death  you  would  not  call  sublime. 

His  life  was?     You  would  answer,  "No." 
But  silent  lives  like  his,  you  know, 

Are  like  the  silent  work  of  God, 
They  teach  the  grain  to  sprout  and  grow, 

They  lead  the  grass  on  rod  by  rod 
O'er  fields  where  mother  Earth  lies  bare, 

Rough-torn  by  hand  of  man  or  time ; 
(26) 


Estelle 

And  thus  they  heal  the  wounds  those  wear. 

And  are  more  blest  than  if  sublime. 
Now,  standing  at  the  open  grave, 

The  artist  felt  a  sorrow  new ; 
He  could  not  tell  what  'twas  that  gave 

Such  sympathy  as  thrilled  him  through. 
He  knew  a  few  more  days,  and  then 

His  duty  called  him  back  to  where 
He  laid  aside  his  work  to  gain 

A  needed  rest  and  wholesome  air ; 
And  yet  there  stirred  within  his  heart 

A  tenderness  he  never  owned, 
When  yonder  form  seemed  reft  apart 

By  silent  Grief  that  inly  moaned, 
A  noble  Impulse  rose  and  said  — 

(Ah,  well !  we  '11  not  repeat  it  here) . 
Ambition  lifted  up  her  head ; 

The  Impulse  shrank  away  in  fear. 


(27) 


Estelle 


A  FEW  days  more,  and  then  by  chance 
**  He  passed  the  gate  that  led  within 
To  Estelle's  home.  The  sun's  last  glance 

Was  resting  on  this  world  of  sin, 
And  giving  benediction  sweet 

In  floods  of  golden,  glorious  light, 
And  streaming  far  away  to  greet 

The  onward  coming  of  the  night. 
All  sorrow-laden  she  had  walked 

On  down  the  roadway  to  the  gate. 
They  met;  before  they  knew  they  talked  — 

How  long  we  need  not  here  relate. 
But,  as  she  leaned  upon  his  arm 

And  walked  on  slowly  back  toward  home, 
He  felt  his  heart  grow  wondrous  warm ; 

In  some  strange  way  his  thoughts  would  roam 
To  that  point  where  Ambition  rose 

And  said,  "It  can  not  be,  and  must 
(28) 


Estelle 

At  once  be  crushed.     So  do  n't  disclose 

Your  weakness  to  her  simple  trust." 
Estelle  -was  fair,  exceeding  fair, 

And  sorrow  gave  her  yet  more  grace : 
It  made  more  golden  yet  her  hair, 

It  made  more  pretty  yet  her  face ; 
And  then  her  voice  had  such  a  charm, 

It  rose  and  fell  in  cadence  sweet; 
And  when  his  eye  fell  on  her  arm, 

He  found  a  model  quite  complete. 
Thus  moving  on,  a  sudden  whir 

Of  wings,  and  then  before  their  eyes 
A  young  bird  fell,  (was  it  not  queer?) 

And,  wounded,  struggled  hard  to  rise. 
Estelle  was  touched,  and  said,  "Poor  thing, 

A  cruel  hand  has  wrought  thee  wrong; 
A  bird  that  bears  a  broken  wing 

Can  never  sing  its  sweetest  song." 
And  that  was  all ;  the  artist  knew 

To-morrow  he  must  leave,  if  he 
(29) 


3  "* 

a    i-h 


3 


Estelle 

Would  step  by  step  rise  upward  through 
Temptation  to  art's  mastery. 


O-MORROW  came,  and  he  -was  gone  ; 
•*•       And  she  —  well,  women  can  be  strong. 
A  dream  that  they  have  dreamt  upon 

Until  it  works  almost  a  wrong, 
They  yet  can  hide  away  and  smile, 

And  none  of  those  they  chance  to  meet 
Can  ever  know  how  they  beguile 

Their  hearts  to  play  such  fair  deceit. 


rT^HE  artist  stood  within  his  room 

*       And  worked  at  easel  long  and  stout. 
From  morning's  light  to  evening's  gloom 

Fair  ladies  went  within,  without. 
And  one  there  was  who  often  came 

And  watched  the  paintings  as  they  grew; 
And  with  her  was  a  stately  dame 

Whose  diamonds  flashed  upon  the  viev. 
(30) 


Estelle 

There  was  no  doubt  but  wealth  was  theirs ; 

There  was  no  further  doubt  but  they 
Were  not  so  wrapped  in  art  affairs 

That  oft  their  eyes  would  stray  away 
To  where  the  artist,  deep  in  thought, 

Was  linking  dream  to  dream  so  fair 
That  all  about  him,  as  he  wrought, 

He  fancied  was  ambrosial  air. 
In  time  he  met  with  them  and  grew 

To  know  they  were  sweet  Fashion's  own, 
Whose  art  levees  a  parvenu 

Regarded  as  quite  near  the  throne. 
Ambition  stirred  anew  within 

His  heart  of  hearts,  as  now  he  read 
The  work  he  need  not  to  begin, 

If  he  would  yield  but  to  be  led. 
The  way  was  plain,  the  sailing  clear, 

The  world  would  then  all  honor  give ; 
With  talent,  wealth,  and  fashion  near, 

He  well  might  think  it  sweet  to  live. 

(31) 


Estelle 

He  looked  his  gallery  round,  and  saw 

'Twas  here  an  eye,  'twas  there  a  hand, 
That  seemed  in  some  strange  way  to  draw 

His  thoughts  unto  another  land, 
And  mountains  blue  and  sunny  skies, 

And  golden  locks  in  wavy  fold, 
And  all  the  depth  of  blue  in  eyes, 

And  memories  of  the  days  of  old. 

'Twas  cruel  to  his  name  to  dream 

Of  turning  from  this  chance  away. 
As  Fashion's  favorites  round  did  stream, 

When  night  had  intercepted  day, 
He  felt  a  very  lord  of  men, 

A  monarch  of  a  little  world ; 
And  round  and  round,  again,  again, 

In  mazy  dance  his  glad  heart  whirled. 
The  blazing  diamonds  sparkled  bright, 

The  slippered  feet  in  kid  were  clad, 
And  surely  never  revel-wight 

A  more  enlisted  partner  had. 
(32) 


Estelle 

She  threw  her  soul  into  the  dance, 

And  seemed  enkindled  with  the  throng, 
As  foot  to  foot  and  glance  to  glance 

Their  airy  figures  flashed  along. 
But,  0 !  there  was,  I  can  not  tell, 

A  little  something  wanting  yet 
To  win  him,  and  to  win  him  well, 

So  well  that  he  must  needs  forget. 

No  ties  now  bound  him  to  that  lass, 

That  little  country-maiden  there ; 
He  simply  met  her  as  you  pass 

A  rose-bush  flowering  in  the  air ; 
You  stop  and  view  the  roses  red, 

You  catch  the  perfume  with  your  breath, 
And  then  you  stride  on  straight  ahead 

And  care  not  how  they  meet  their  death. 
This  world  is  all  a  thing  of  show, 

And  who  would  ride  upon  the  crest 
Must  rate  these  finer  feelings  low, 

And  not  be  hampered  or  distrest. 

(33) 


Estelle 

If  birds  with  broken  wings  should  fall 

Before  his  feet  with  plaintive  look, 
He  casts  them  from  the  way,  that's  all  \ 

They  '11  find  some  little,  hidden  nook. 
Thus  did  Ambition  lure  his  soul 

And  find  a  reason  for  each  act : 
We  go  to  pieces  on  the  shoal 

In  fleeing  from  the  cataract. 

OH !  such  is  life ;   and  ere  we  know 
'Tis  presto!   and  a  change  is  made, 
And  what  was  this  a  while  ago, 

Is  that  before  it  can  be  said. 
And  so,  within  that  distant  glen 

Beneath  the  mountain's  arching  brow, 
Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 

Is  maiden  meditative  now. 
She  sees  the  sun  rise  in  the  east, 

She  sees  the  sun  set  in  the  west, 
She  sees  the  Summer  spread  her  feast, 

And  Autumn  come  a  welcome  guest. 

(34) 


Estelle 

Her  daily  round  of  duties  all  — 

Her  books,  her  walks,  her  dreams  by  night 
Are  shadowed  by  an  inward  pall 

Whose  edges  gleam  with  golden  light ; 
For,  though  the  face  of  Hope  was  hid, 

Faith,  loving  maid  that  knows  no  guile, 
In  dreamless  innocency  bid 

Her  heart  play  with  a  wanton  wile. 
The  flowers  knew  her  kindly  touch, 

The  bird's  poor  broken  wing  was  healed, 
The  lambs  all  grew  to  love  her  much, 

And  followed  faithful  round  the  field ; 
The  trees  swung  out  their  hands  in  glee, 

The  brooklets  laughed  as  she  passed  on 
The  breezes  breathed  in  ecstacy, 

The  sun  rays  welcomed  her  at  morn. 
She  taught  the  music  now  to  stray 

In  winsome  grace  o'er  pliant  strings, 
And  oft  she  sang  a  roundelay 

That  ran  into  more  serious  things : 

(35) 


HER    SONG. 

Ah!   hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 

And  work  will  keep  her  young  heart  sweet; 

The  morn  shall  find  me  down  the  dell, 
The  night  shall  give  me  rest  complete. 

Ah!   hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 

And  work  will  keep  her  young  heart  sweet. 

Ah!   hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 
But  clouds  will  linger  in  the  sky; 

I  wonder  if  they  will  not  swell 
And  burst  in  tempests  by  and  by. 

Ah!   hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 
But  clouds  will  linger  in  the  sky. 

Ah!   hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 

And  work  will  keep  her  young  heart  sweet. 

I  do  not  know,  I  can  not  tell 

Which  way  she  leads  my  willing  feet; 

Eut  hope  is  mine,  and  hope  is  well, 

And  work  will  keep  her  young  heart  sweet. 


(36) 


And,  suiting  action  then  to  song, 

She  took  her  life  up  new  again, 
And  bore  it  like  a  lark  along 

The  by-paths  of  that  little  glen. 
As  chance  now  opened  up  the  way, 

She  taught  the  children  in  the  school. 
(How  easy  is  a  teacher's  sway 

Where  Love  is  law,  and  Duty,  rule.) 
She  grew  to  have  exalted  aim; 

She  saw  within  their  little  eyes, 
All  nicely  set  within  its  frame, 

A  picture  of  sweet  Paradise ; 
And  knew  that  each  pure  little  heart 

Was  in  itself  a  costly  gem, 
And  were  it  nurtured  quite  apart 

Would  stud  the  Master's  diadem. 
But  man  is  man's  supremest  foe, 

Though  he  should  be  his  dearest  friend, 
And  thousands  league  for  brothers'  woe 

While  hundreds  work  for  better  end. 

(37) 


Estelle 

The  Caesars  of  this  cruel  earth 

Have  been  the  spoilers  of  the  best 
That  God's  dear  love  has  -wooed  to  birth 

In  every  human  being's  breast. 
Man  preys  upon  his  fellow-man, 

And  children  in  their  very  teens, 
While  learning  use  of  a  or  an, 

Interpolate  a  thousand  scenes 
Of  Life's  kaleidoscopic  round 

Upon  the  neighbor  children's  soul ; 
And  thus  the  serpent's  track  is  bound 

By  Human-life's  concentric  whole. 
She  thought  if  she  could  lead  them  out 

And  let  the  hills  speak  to  them  words 
And  airs  of  heaven  lap  them  'bout 

And  glad  them  with  the  songs  of  birds, 
And  there  along  the  brooklet's  banks 

The  story  of  the  waters  teach, 
She  might  accord  herself  due  thanks 

For  keeping  them  from  Harm's  sad  reach. 
(38) 


Estelle 

So,  often  when  the  tasks  were  o'er, 

And  books  were  laid  aside  that  day, 
She  led  them  gently  from  the  door 

Across  the  field  and  forest  way ; 
She  taught  them  of  the  beauties  sweet 

That  lay  on  hill-side  and  in  vale, 
That  fell  about  their  very  feet 

And  rose  in  joy  to  regale ; 
She  told  them  that  the  human  soul 

Is  like  a  -wondrous  mirror  made, 
And  will  reflect  the  half  or  whole, 

In  fuller  light  or  deeper  shade, 
Of  all  this  joyous  universe, 

That  speaks  of  beauty,  truth,  and  God, 
And  be  the  better  or  the  worse 

Upon  a  human  will's  mere  nod. 
If  it  is  worn  as  it  should  be, 

And  kept  undimmed  by  sin's  foul  breath, 
It  will  reflect  the  harmony 

That  moves  through  all  things  —  even  death. 

(39) 


She  led  them  then  from  self  to  stray, 

And  begged  them  walk  with  open  eyes 
And  watch  for  flowers  along  the  way, 

And  hand  in  hand  ascend  the  rise ; 
She  told  them  earth  was  rich  and  sweet, 

That  God  looks  outward  from  the  skies. 
If  man  his  fellow  man  would  greet 

With  warmth  of  heart  and  loving  eyes, 
Old  Want  would  fold  her  hands  and  sleep, 

And  Crime  into  a  dwarf  would  shrink, 
And  Sorrow's  heart  would  cease  to  weep, 

And  fell  Despair  halt  on  the  brink. 
A  great  warm  heart  will  burgeon  out, 

If  Faith  and  Charity  are  there, 
But  greed  of  gain  is  seed  of  doubt, 

And  doubt  will  nurture  sin  and  care. 
It  is  not  what  we  have,  but  are, 

That  makes  us  happy  here  on  earth, 
And  up  beyond  or  sun  or  star 

Our  souls  are  reckoned  as  our  worth. 
(40) 


Estelle 

As  air  pours  in  a  tainted  room 

And  sweeps  the  pestilence  away, 
And  to  the  wan  restores  the  bloom, 

And  for  the  darkness  gives  the  day, 
So  Nature  peeps  into  the  heart 

And  blows  the  bloom  of  roses  in, 
And  swings  the  dusky  doors  apart 

And  sweeps  away  the  brood  of  sin. 

But,  oh !  the  teacher  as  she  taught 

Yet  grew  and  grew  more  lovely  still, 
And  far  the  noblest  work  she  wrought 

Was  this' — she  schooled  a  perfect  will. 
And  though  she  sometimes  dreamed  "Perhaps," 

She  smiled  and  said  "God  knoweth  best." 
And  while  the  children  conned  their  maps, 

Her  lily  heart  had  perfect  rest. 


Estelle 


world  had  seized  him,  and  he  flung 
*       His  ardent  heart  into  the  stream ; 
He  rose  a  meteor,  that  now  hung 

In  mid-air  as  the  planets  seem. 
His  friends  were  scores  on  scores,  and  they 

Hung  round  him  with  a  hollow  glee, 
And  made  the  midnight  hour  like  day 

With  song  and  dance  and  revelry. 
The  club-rooms  gleamed  with  golden  light, 

The  banquet  table  groaned  with  freight ; 
To  round  the  hour  of  waning  night, 

The  wine-cup  sat  beside  the  plate. 
They  each  had  sung  a  little  song  — 

They  all  had  spoken  each  his  speech, 
The  artist's  breath  with  wine  was  strong, 

As  back  he  leaned  with  glass  in  reach 


(42) 


Esteilt 


HIS  SONG:    CARPE  DIEM. 

Brave  Caecuban  and  Massic  clear! 

Horatian  strains  will  celebrate, 
With  old  Falernian,  year  by  year, 

Your  powers  to  intoxicate! 
But  whether  it  be  Caecuban, 

Or  Massic  mantling  to  the  brim, 
Or  glorious  old  Falernian, 

Who  drinks  the  deepest,  here's  to  him! 

Oh!   Bacchus  wears  the  poplar  wreath, 

And  Venus  smiles  with  sweet  delight: 
Come!  gather  now  out,  boys,  beneath 

The  stars  that  gem  the  brow  of  night, 
And  let  us  sing  a  roundelay 

And  round  it  up  with  measure  trim, 
And  drain  the  wine-cup  while  we  may, 

Who  drinks  the  deepest,  here's  to  him! 

A  merry  song,  come  one,  come  all, 

Let  Cytherea  lead  the  dance; 
And,  while  the  Graces  are  in  call, 

Let's  bring  them  forth  as  each  may  chance; 
And,  while  Apollo  v/e  salute, 

Amid  the  Muses,  tricked  and  prim, 
(43) 


Estelle 

With  glass  to  glass  and  foot  to  foot, 
Who  drinks  the  deepest,  here's  to  him! 

Ah!    Time  flies  fast  and  soon  is  gone; 

We  buried  Yesterday  at  night. 
To-morrow  will  have  come  and  flown 

Almost  before  it  seems  in  sight. 
Then  seize  the  day;  let  mirth  flow  on. 

Our  chance  for  length  of  life  is  slim. 
Once  more,  before  the  day  shall  dawn, 

Who  drinks  the  deepest,  here's  to  him! 


The  seed  of  wine  is  seed  of  wrong, 

And  seed  of  wrong  will  fruit  in  ill ; 
And,  though  you  wait  the  harvest  long, 

You  may  expect  the  harvest  still. 
Old  Nature  is  a  kindly  dame, 

And  keeps  her  plenty  on  the  shelf, 
But  she  will  yet  assert  her  claim 

In  due  time  to  protect  herself. 
Outraged,  she  grows  terrific  then, 

And  wreaks  her  vengeance  manifold ; 

(44) 


Estelle 

You  may  not  coax  her  to  her  den, 

You  may  not  bribe  her  off  with  gold. 
Long  days  the  fever  dread  had  raged, 

Its  ebb-tide  now  was  setting  in, 
And  kind  attendants  all  presaged 

That  time  and  hope  the  fight  would  win. 
As  in  these  sluggish  after-hours 

He  lay  and  languished  in  his  bed, 
There  came  a  little  bunch  of  flowers 

In  which  were  honeysuckles  red, 
And  violets  with  eyes  all  blue, 

And  buttercups  all  creamy  gold ; 
And  then  there  burst  upon  his  view 

The  memories  of  the  days  of  old. 
There  was  no  word  to  tell  the  tale 

Of  friendship  lingering  through  the  years- 
There  was  no  plea  —  no  storm  —  no  gale  — 

No  burst  of  passion  —  flood  of  tears; 
And  yet  his  soul  was  through  and  through 

Thrilled  as  by  hidden  battery's  shock ; 

(45) 


Estelle 

His  own  sweet  thoughts  stormed  into  view, 

And  smote  with  might  the  desert  rock. 
And  then  he  recognized  as  true 

In  all  the  round  of  life's  fair  things 
The  fairest  (ah!  need  I  tell  you?) 

Was  where  the  Rappahannock  springs. 
And,  as  the  days  passed  slowly  on, 

There  grew  upon  the  canvas  there, 
As  bit  by  bit  from  morn  to  morn 

He  worked  to  drive  away  dull  care, 
A  picture  of  a  forest-queen, 

With  crown  of  wild  flowers  on  her  head, 
High-throned  on  rocks  —  a  living  green 

With  moss  whose  soft  plush  carpeted 
The  tesselated  floor  beneath, 

Which  won  a  deeper  tinge  from  trees 
Whose  locked  arms  longed  to  make  bequeath 

Of  trysting  spot  to  love  and  ease. 
He  caught  the  sun-ray's  laughing  light, 

And  locked  it  in  her  golden  hair; 
(46) 


Estelle 

He  set  the  lily's  seal  of  white 

Upon  her  face  and  features  fair ; 
He  won  the  rosebud's  pouting  grace 

And  on  her  arching  lips  it  grew ; 
Rose  petals  on  her  cheeks  found  place, 

And  in  her  eyes  were  violets  blue. 
And  now  the  dawn  seemed  broken  sweet 

In  whelming  freshness  o'er  all  lands, 
As  ever  more  and  more  complete 

Expression  grew  beneath  his  hands. 
It  was  a  picture  that  would  stay 

A  very  Vulcan,  if  not  blind, 
It  was  a  picture,  I  must  say, 

Whose  canvas  was  the  artist's  mind. 
For  he  was  feeble  many  days, 

And  like  a  very  infant  weak ; 
His  hand  with  effort  he  could  raise, 

His  voice  almost  forgot  to  speak. 

Then  came  a  letter.     Farmer  Creal 

Thought  rest  among  the  mountains  good, 

(47) 


Estellt 

"If  he  could  teach  himself  to  feel 

Content  with  pure  air  and  plain  food ; " 
And  Cousin  Mary  (Creal's  good  wife) 

Must  add  a  post-script  just  to  say 
"You  must  come,  Ed.     Upon  my  life 

We'll,  cure  you.     Yours,  devoted,  May." 
Oh !  farmers'  wives  are  oft  so  kind 

Up  'mid  those  dear  old  mountains  blue, 
They'll  ransack  all  the  house  to  find 

Some  better  way  of  serving  you. 


eventide — that  holy  hour 
When  calm  invests  the  realms  of  air, 
And  dew  brings  joy  unto  the  flower 

Whose  head  is  drooping  in  despair. 
The  stars  were  in  the  silent  sky, 

The  soft  light  fell  on  hill  and  dale, 
The  meadow  brook  went  purling  by 
The  clover-blooms  that  filled  the  vale ; 
(48) 


EsbtU 

The  fire-flies  hung  above  the  meads 

Like  ships  of  airy  little  sprites, 
And  wreathed  -with  threads  of  golden  beads 

The  dark  hair  of  this  queen  of  nights. 
Afar,  anear,  there  was  a  hush 

Unbroken,  save  at  intervals 
When  nightingales  upon  the  bush 

Burst  into  lovely  madrigals. 
The  artist  at  the  window-side 

Reclined  upon  the  settee's  length, 
Looked  out  upon  the  prospect  wide 

And  drank  with  every  breath  new  strength. 
The  mountains  in  the  distance  now 

Were  growing  brighter  as  there  rose 
The  moon  in  silence  o'er  their  brow 

And  smiled  upon  the  earth's  repose. 
"To-morrow,"  queried  he,  "and  then? 

Ah !  then  the  Rubicon  is  passed ; 
For  me  as  for  the  rest  of  men 

The  die  for  once  and  all  is  cast." 

(49) 


Estelle 

Tomorrow  woke  from  out  of  sleep 

And  cast  her  night-robes  from  her  breast, 
And  from  the  hill-tops  tried  to  peep 

On  that  sweet  vale's  unbroken  rest; 
But  soon  the  birds  with  silver  throat 

Bade  welcome  to  her  coming  feet, 
And  Nature  added  note  to  note 

Until  the  chorus  was  complete ; 
The  sheep  stirred  on  the  hill-tops  green, 

The  cattle  browsed  beside  the  stream, 
The  milk-maid  moved  the  cows  between, 

The  farm-hand  harnessed  up  his  team. 
The  sun  arose  in  austere  pride, 

And  beamed  upon  the  wakened  world : 
By  every  streamlet's  laughing  side 

Peace's  white-winged  banner  was  unfurled ; 
The  dew-drop  on  the  clover-leaf 

Like  some  pure  maiden  felt  his  breath, 
His  beamy  joy  but  brought  her  grief, 

His  kiss  was  but  the  kiss  of  death. 
(50) 


Estelk 

The  artist  found  himself  e'er  noon 

Down  at  the  widow's  modest  home ; 
Ah !  who  can  stay  in-doors  when  June 

With  witching  smiles  suggests  a  roam. 
They  made  their  way  as  long  before 

(Old  habit  is  old  habit  still) 
From  out  the  parlor  to  the  door, 

Then  up  the  farm-road  to  the  hill. 
He  had  already  told  her  of 

The  rich  fulfillment  of  his  dreams, 
But  now  he  seemed  somehow  to  love 

To  dwell  upon  such  pleasant  themes; 
He  spoke  of  how  he  hoped  his  health 

Would  soon  allow  him  to  return 
And  with  new  fame  get  greater  wealth 

Than  he  had  yet  essayed  to  earn ; 
He  spoke  of  how  his  city  home 

Was  hung  with  pictures  —  all  his  own- 
Of  how  his  friends  should  often  come 

And  spend  the  evenings  there  alone, 
(so 


Esteiie 

Now,  as  they  wandered  up  the  hill, 

They  reached  a  spot  where  great  trees  rise, 
The  breeze  grew  fresh  and  fresher  still, 

And  bluer  grew  the  deep  blue  skies. 
Without  forethought,  Estelle  now  sat 

('Twas  such  a  charming  scene  below) 
Right  on  the  ledge,  still  gazing  at 

The  harvesters  move  to  and  fro ; 
The  wheat-field  stretched  out  far  and  wide, 

The  golden  grain,  like  inland  seas, 
Now  flowed  in  ebb,  now  rose  in  tide, 

Wave  chasing  wave  as  breeze  chased  breeze. 
The  bob-white  whistled  on  the  rail, 

The  harvesters  broke  into  song, 
And  now,  across  the  pretty  vale 

The  wheat-shocks  ranged  themselves  along. 
The  artist  knew  the  hour  was  there  — 

The  moment  of  supreme  suspense  — 
His  love  he  must  at  once  declare 

And  yet  could  find  no  good  pretense. 
(52) 


Estelle 

He  had  been  brave  for  many  things, 

He  had  been  bold  at  other  hours, 
But  now  his  courage  lost  her  wings 

And  speech  seemed  reft  of  all  her  powers. 
It  may  be  that  he  felt  his  life 

Depended  for  its  weal  or  woe 
On  whether  she  would  be  his  wife, 

Or,  self-sufficient,  give  him  "no"- 
And  "yes,"  or  "no,"  he  could  not  tell. 

Had  he  seen  less  of  man  and  man's, 
He  might  have  guessed  it  very  well 

And  trusted  to  his  heart's  sweet  plans. 
But  he  had  seen  a  woman  smile 

So  oft  within  that  world  without, 
That  be  had  grown  to  place  a  guile 

Where  she  would  never  dream  a  doubt. 
But  little  things  will  often  give 

Excuse  for  great  wide-sweeping  acts, 
And  empires  often  rise  and  live 

On  pretexts  that  have  murdered  facts. 

(S3) 


'A  bunch  of  wild  flowers  often  can, 
Decide   the   destiny   of   man— 


(Page  54) 


Estelle 

His  eye  fell  on  the  violets  blue, 

The  honeysuckle's  breath  was  sweet, 
And  buttercups  just  yonder  grew 

Where  field  and  neighb'ring  forest  meet. 
A  bunch  of  wild  flowers  often  can, 

When  youth  in  joy  is  leagued  with  youth, 
Decide  the  destiny  of  man  — 

Between  the  lines  you  read  the  truth, 
Or  should ;  for  up  the  hill  they  went 

With  strange  forebodings  on  their  part, 
And  down  they  came,  and  sweet  Content 

Was  coyly  nestling  in  each  heart. 


A  WELL-BELOVED  and  loving  home 
**     Is  God's  own  picture  of  the  blest  — 
A  spot  to  which,  where'er  we  roam, 

We  all  may  turn  and  find  sweet  rest. 
If,  busy  at  his  studio, 

The  artist  worked  the  livelong  day, 

(54) 


Estelle 

He  knew  the  shades  of  night  would  throw 

The  light  of  home  about  his  way. 
A  man's  love  wavers  to  and  fro, 

Yet  settles  down  at  last  in  strength ; 
A  woman's  love,  as  women  go, 

Is  love  unto  love's  fullest  length; 
And  he  that  has  it,  has  what  he 

Should  value  as  his  very  soul  — 
A  buoy  that  upon  life's  sea 

Is  strongest  when  the  tempests  roll ; 
But,  oh !  when  woman's  love  is  God's, 

And  sweetened  by  that  higher  good, 
Its  influence  reaches  many  rods, 

And  consecrates  a  neighborhood ; 
She  is  a  city  on  a  hill  — 

A  light  that  never  can  be  hid. 
Her  husband  feels  her  gentle  will, 

The  child  will  love,  should  she  forbid. 
And  Estelle  sits  at  eventide 

With  ease  and  plenty  all  about, 

(55) 


Estelle 

And,  in  a  little  crib  beside, 

A  baby-foot  kicks  in  and  out, 
And  now  she  bends,  and  with  her  hand 

Plays  with  its  little  'broidered  gown 
Or  gives  a  kiss  or  ties  a  band 

Or  smoothes  its  golden  ringlets  down. 
It  cooes  and  laughs  and  lifts  its  fist, 

And  kicks  its  little  toes  in  air, 
And  now  —  what  mother  can  resist? 

She  bounds  with  baby  down  the  stair 
And  open  throws  the  door,  and  then — 

A  kiss  for  her,  and  baby,  too, 
Behold  the  happiest  now  of  men. 

They  enter,  and  are  gone  from  view. 

L'ENVOY. 
0,  men  that  work  and  men  that  bear ! 

What  gives  you  grace  to  work  and  wait? 
The  morning  kiss  upon  the  stair, 
The  evening  welcome  at  the  gate. 
(56) 


A  BEAUTIFUL  GIFT  BOOK, 


THE    MOST   POPULAR    IDYL   IN    AMERICA. 

. . . BY • •  • 

PBOF.  MARCUS  BLAKEY  ALLMOND,  A.  M.,  LL.D., 

MAGAZINE  MEDALIST,  UNIVERSITY  OP  VIRGINIA, 

HEAD-MASTER  UNIVERSITY  SCHOOL,  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 


jfiftb 

Three  Styles 

(1)  A  limited  number  bound  in  red  or  white  silk»grained  cloth, 
embossed  in  gold  leaf  roses;  printed  on  the  costliest  antique 
deckle-edged  paper ;  eight  full-pagedhalf -tones  illustrating  scenes 
in  the  poem,  autographed,  numbered,  in  envelopes  with  brass  fast 
ening—a  $2.50  book  for  $1.25.  (2)  Same  as  the  first-class  in  binding 
and  paper  with  seven  half-tones,  but  not  autographed  or  num 
bered.  Price,  $1.00.  (3)  Bound  in  white  parchment  paper  with 
title  printed  in  two  colors  (red  and  blue),  printed  on  deckle-edged 
paper,  with  same  title-page  and  frontispiece  (in  two  colors)  which 
the  cloth-bound  have  and  enclosed  in  a  pretty  paper  box,  69 
cents.  Sent  postage  prepaid  on  receipt  of  the  price  by 

THE  ESTELLE  PUBLISHING  CO., 

1071  THIRD  STREET,  LOUISVILLE,  KY. 

"Sweet  in  its  spirit,  lovely  in  its  pictures,  and  admirably  felicitous  in 
its  diction."— The  late  President  N.  Porter,  D.  D..  LL.  D.,  of  Yale  College. 

'•Of  a  kind  to  tempt  one  to  believe  there  is  a  greater  chance  for  honest 
sentiment  at  the  South  than  at  the  North." — Atlantic  Monthly,  Boston,  Mass. 

"Healthy  in  sentiment,  honest  in  tone,  it  is  what  one  seldom  sees — 
a  love  story  that  can  be  read  and  the  reader  be  the  better  off.  It  is  elegantly 
bound  and  will  be  a  most  appropriate  Christmas  present." — Louisville 
Courier- Journal. 

"Full  of  healthy  sentiment  and  wholesome  views  of  life.  The  beautiful 
little  volume  deserves  to  be  widely  read  and  shows  the  author  to  be  a  real 
poet." — Rev.  John  A.  Broadus,  D  D.,  LL.  D.,  of  the  Southern  Baptist 
Theological  Seminary. 

"A  charming,  idyllic  poem,  as  fresh  and  simple  and  natural  a  love 
story  as  any  sung  or  told  by  troubadour  in  Provence." — Editorial  ir 
Louisville  Commercial. 


...SEstelle... 

an  H&\>1  of  ©15  Diroinia. 

BY 

PROF.  MARCUS  BLAKEY  ALLMOND,  A.  M.,  LL.D. 

MAGAZINE  MEDALIST,  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA, 

HEAD-S1ASTEK  UNIVERSITY   SCHOOL, 

IX)UI3VILl4E,  KT. 


"  A  pretty  picture  drawn  in  bold  outlines,  breathing  the  air  of  love 
and  home.  It  has  the  natural  rhythm  of  the  bird  and  the  brook." — 
Bishop  T.  U.  Dudley  in  Louisville  (ky.)  Post. 

"  It  fits  so  well  the  balminess  of  June  weather." — Prof.  B.  L.  Gil- 
dersleeve,  LL.D.t  PH.  D.,  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore. 

"  Estelle  is  a  very  sweet  and  graceful  poem  on  a  most  difficult  key  of 
thought — the  Idyl.  I  congratulate  the  author  on  the  skill — or  gift — that 
enabled  him  to  write  it." — The  late  William  Preston  Johnston,  President 
Tulane  University,  New  Orleans. 

"  Were  the  merit  and  the  beauty  of  the  poem  '  Estelle '  more  widely 
known,  it  would  certainly  have  a  wonderful  sale.  A  million  young  people 
ought  to  read  it  this  winter,  for  there  is  that  in  it  which  uplifts  and  strength 
ens." — Qeo.  O.  fisher,  Librarian  Drew  Theological  Seminary,  New  Jersey. 

"A  sweeter  love  story  we  have  not  read  for  many  a  long  day." — 
Religious  Herald,  Richmond,  Va. 

"It  is  very  tender,  good  and  true." — Joaquin  Miller,  Poet  of  the  Sierras. 

"Twenty-four  karats  fine." — Cincinnati  Commercial- Gazette. 

"A  very  pretty  and  dainty  volume.  It  has  been  highly  praised  by 
President  Noah  Porter,  of  Yale  College,  and  deserves  it." — Baltimore  Sun. 

"The  seductive  flow  of  the  verse  leads  the  reader  along,  will  he,  nil  he, 
until  at  the  close,  too  soon  reached,  he  feels  compelled  to  read  the  story 
again  for  its  very  beauty.  We  know  no  poem  so  modest  and  yet  so  fas 
cinating." —  Virginia  University  Magaaine. 

CINCINNATI,  O.,  June,  '95. 

"  Do  you  wonder  that  I  love  '  Estelle '  ?  The  burden  of  my  affliction 
seemed  too  hard  for  me  longer  to  bear,  when  '  Estelle ' — beautiful  '  Estelle ' 
— came  to  me,  her  garments  all  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  hill-side  flowers. 
In  one  little  half  hour  she  taught  me  so  sweet  a  lesson  of  patient  endur 
ance,  cheerful  resignation,  and  earnest  endeavor,  that  I  feel  I  shall  be  better 
for  it  always."— H.  L.  B. 


MAY     7  1982 

DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  US    A. 


p~ 


3  1970  00493  2288 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000200288    9 


HP 


